


Our Venom Dismantles All to Ash

by sadclapz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, M/M, Making Out, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Murder Husbands, References to Dante's Inferno, basically the murderous gays in florence au, cw: mentions/metaphors of snakes, dare i add this tag, homoerotically charged arson, i really just added that to be funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadclapz/pseuds/sadclapz
Summary: "With his venom irresistible and bittersweetthat loosener of limbs,Love reptile-likestrikes me down."-Sappho
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Our Venom Dismantles All to Ash

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't done much writing these past few months due to some mental health issues, so i feel a bit rusty and out of practice. i'm beyond starstruck at the amount of really good hannibal fics out there so i'm a bit insecure of this piece... but i'm hoping it helps me get back on my feet and my next hannibal stuff will be an improvement. hope you enjoy!!

A farmer is killed in a small town outside Florence. His body, sprawled, contorted, painted in a black merlot under moonlight peering through the windows. The intestines are wrapped around hi groin, knotted in coins up to his torso and neck like pewter snakes.

Will looks to his hands, dripping with red vigor, bringing the sticky warmth to his cheek. He looks to Hannibal, colored in the same wickedness, panting as he pushes the bloodied tresses of his hair past his forehead.

Hannibal circles around the body, floorboards of the hayloft creaking with rotten, wooden screams. Always an artist, studying every curve and bend of wrist of his masterpiece. He opens his mouth to comment on serpents in the eighth circle of hell, how they slither through time as eternal deceivers, yet are no dissimilar to the predictable sinner- until he notices Will’s trembling.

He walks to him, pulling his frame closer by the wrists, cradles the bones that tremble in their own bloodshed. Will gasps at the night’s chill, lungs tearing at their seams like old burlap. Hannibal hushes him in soft, ghostly whispers, entangling their fingers and sweeping the curls from his brow. It’s an unknown yet lingering sensation to finally accept the desire to kill. One that Will is not quite used to, but welcomes as natural as breathing the air around him- the smoky air of hell flames, crackling in frigid wind.

“Contrapasso,” Will chokes out, tasting the blood upon his lip.

Hannibal has rambled on the topic of thieves in Dante’s Inferno during their breakfast earlier that morning, his lover’s eyes still hanging heavy at the sunlight and digits limp on the coffee mug. How the morning glow of Florence warmed against his cheekbones, framing his lips in golden.

He could still see that golden hidden in the indigo hue of the night, the obsidian gore beading from the corners of his mouth.

“Not quite,” he smiles, running nails over bruised knuckles. “Vanni Fucci was to be incinerated from the bites of snakes, only to rise from the ashes for further torture.”

Will manages a weakened laugh, a grin attempting to crawl out of its pitted despair. “Who are we in this situation?”

Hannibal slides a hand from Will’s temple past his cheek, tracing along his jaw to the crook of his neck. His breath lingers on the other side of his face, touch still travelling to feel the heaving pulse beneath his palm.

“I’ve entertained the thought of you as Dante and I as Virgil many times, as I guide you through each level of Hell,” he hums, lips stopping above his collarbones. “However, we could merely be serpents, our venom dismantling all to ash.”

The farmer was an acquaintance of theirs they ran into at a market every so often. He wasn’t an extraordinary or boisterous man. He had an odd shiftiness about him, but was tolerable by Hannibal’s standards at least, until they caught him attempting to pick pocket Will’s wallet. Of course, this was _rude_ \- Will already predicted his fate once that was decided. _Just a snake in the grass_ , he assures Hannibal.

Inspiration comes easily to Hannibal- art was hidden in all its crinkled corners, torn in every page of their journey through the embers together.

“We strike at each other,” Will sighs, a pair of canines nibbling at his skin. “Dismantling all to ash until we rise again for further torture.”

He feels a devilish grin against the fresh love bite. Hannibal caresses it with his tongue, twisting his hand back up to reach for his curls. “And I would slither back each time to feel that pang of toxin.”

Will reaches for him, palms still drenched with blood, bringing his face up to match his lips. Kisses of soft contortions that mimic the body bleeding into the floor in a gentler embrace. Hannibal runs his tongue along, tasting the rusted ichor drying on Will’s bottom lip, shuddering sweetly, reveling in nostalgia like it was the first time he’s tasted such a treat. Will’s mouth confides to his, searing for the aphrodisiac warmth that burned behind his teeth like a dragon’s inferno. Hannibal pulls away for a moment, to hear his lover whimper, to feel his breath hitch with hunger, so the following kiss would feel like acrylic to blue flame.

Undoing the first button on the soaked shirt, Hannibal returns to leave his mark at the center of his chest. Will scratches at the short hairs on his neck, pulling him to kiss further down as more buttons fall from their fabric. He gasps the other’s name, forcing a cry to lilt once his kisses turn into venomous bites. Will can feel blazing grudges enkindle in his sputtering veins, wanting nothing more than to crumble to sinful matter in Hannibal’s arms.

Fangs retracted from Will’s flesh. There is a look upon Hannibal’s face that only he can recognize. The meaning is quizzical and scrawled, but very much seated in every wrinkle. It’s rare, exposed by chance to see what throbs in the metal cage of his ribs, what rots beneath the marrow and tendon.

Before Will is able to ask what’s wrong, Hannibal steals the silence from the musted air of the hayloft, now crimson-speckled against the wood. “This is the first time a corpse in the room has discomforted me.”

“Don’t like an audience?” Will jokes, leaning against the cracking wall behind him, looking to the whites of the farmer’s lifeless eyes.

“The thought of taking you in this barn with another man’s blood on my hands feels barbaric.”

“Yet, it excites you all the same.”

Hannibal gives a genuine chuckle, unable to find an equally playful refute. Instead, he begins to carefully button the shirt back up, the other sighing his unresolved yearning. This was the torture awaiting the ash fall.

Will attempts to gather himself from his senses. Dark, saccharine musk of the hay, murder bled heavy into the air. Moonlight blanketed the scene with dust that seemed to sparkle in the dim. The song of Summer cicadas washing away the silence, guttural screams and chokes, laments of lovers. Not to mention the heat- all of God and Hannibal’s doing, biblical and antagonistic at his sweltering flesh.

“I wish to give you memories you deserve. Seldom do I ponder a life of lesser sin with you,” Hannibal finally says, resting a thumb at Will’s cheek. “Yet, the thought still lingers.”

“I like the sin you live in. Our sin.”

Hannibal pauses, ruminating the possibility of ripping the shirt back off and taking him right there after all. However, he remains composed, for they will not be there for moments longer. His gaze turns to the farmer, growing bluer and paler as the allegorical snakes wrap around. Fishing a box of matches from his pocket, he watches Will’s breathing settle back into his lungs, fragile from convulsion. The blood drying on him like tattoos of hellfire. Hannibal could have dropped to his knees at the sight.

“I think we have committed enough sin in this place. May we leave it to the snakes and finish this at home?” Hannibal asked, striking and holding the flame between his fingers.

They flee once the match is dropped, watching the flames rise from the outside field; watching their venom sink into the wood and fall to the ground. Slithering back into the grass- their eternal deception.


End file.
